The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume Ii Part 16

_ABU MIDJAN_.

"If I sit in the dust For lauding good wine, Ha, ha! it is just: So sits the vine!"

Abu Midjan sang as he sat in chains, For the blood of the grape ran the juice of his veins.

The Prophet had said, "O Faithful, drink not!"

Abu Midjan drank till his heart was hot; Yea, he sang a song in praise of wine, He called it good names--a joy divine, The giver of might, the opener of eyes, Love's handmaid, the water of Paradise!

Therefore Saad his chief spake words of blame, And set him in irons--a fettered flame; But he sings of the wine as he sits in his chains, For the blood of the grape runs the juice of his veins:

"I will not think That the Prophet said _Ye shall not drink Of the flowing red!_"

"'Tis a drenched brain Whose after-sting Cries out, _Refrain: 'Tis an evil thing!_

"But I will dare, With a goodly drought, To drink, nor spare Till my thirst be out.

"_I_ do not laugh Like a Christian fool But in silence quaff The liquor cool

"At door of tent 'Neath evening star, With daylight spent, And Uriel afar!

"Then, through the sky, Lo, the emerald hills!

My faith swells high, My bosom thrills:

"I see them hearken, The Houris that wait!

Their dark eyes darken The diamond gate!

"I hear the float Of their chant divine, And my heart like a boat Sails thither on wine!

"Can an evil thing Make beauty more?

Or a sinner bring To the heavenly door?

"The sun-rain fine Would sink and escape, But is drunk by the vine, Is stored in the grape:

"And the prisoned light I free again: It flows in might Through my s.h.i.+ning brain

"I love and I know; The truth is mine; I walk in the glow Of the sun-bred wine.

"_I_ will not think That the Prophet said _Ye shall not drink Of the flowing red!_

"For his promises, lo, Sevenfold they s.h.i.+ne When the channels o'erflow With the singing wine!

"But I care not, I!--'tis a small annoy To sit in chains for a heavenly joy!"

Away went the song on the light wind borne; His head sank down, and a ripple of scorn Shook the hair that flowed from his curling lip As he eyed his brown limbs in the iron's grip.

Sudden his forehead he lifted high: A faint sound strayed like a moth-wing by!

Like beacons his eyes burst blazing forth: A dust-cloud he spied in the distant north!

A noise and a smoke on the plain afar?

'Tis the cloud and the clang of the Moslem war!

He leapt aloft like a tiger snared; The wine in his veins through his visage flared; He tore at his fetters in bootless ire, He called the Prophet, he named his sire; From his lips, with wild shout, the Techir burst; He danced in his irons; the Giaours he cursed; And his eyes they flamed like a beacon dun, Or like wine in the crystal twixt eye and sun.

The lady of Saad heard him shout, Heard his fetters ring on the stones about The heart of a warrior she understood, And the rage of the thwarted battle-mood: Her name, with the cry of an angry prayer, He called but once, and the lady was there.

"The Giaour!" he panted, "the G.o.dless brute!

And me like a camel tied foot to foot!

Let me go, and I swear by Allah's fear At sunset I don again this gear, Or lie in a heaven of starry eyes, Kissed by moon-maidens of Paradise!

O lady, grant me the death of the just!

Hark to the hurtle! see the dust!"

With ready fingers the n.o.ble dame Unlocked her husband's iron blame; Brought his second horse, his Abdon, out, And his second hauberk, light and stout; Harnessed the warrior, and hight him go An angel of vengeance upon the foe.

With clank of steel and thud of hoof Away he galloped; she climbed the roof.

She sees the cloud and the flashes that leap From the scythe-shaped swords inside it that sweep Down with back-stroke the disordered swath: Thither he speeds, a bolt of wrath!

Straight as an arrow she sees him go, Abu Midjan, the singer, upon the foe!

Like an eagle he vanishes in the cloud, And the thunder of battle bursts more loud, Mingled of crashes and blows and falls, Of the whish that severs the throat that calls, Of neighing and shouting and groaning grim: Abu Midjan, she sees no more of him!

Northward the battle drifts afar On the flowing tide of the holy war.

Lonely across the desert sand, From his wrist by its thong hung his clotted brand, Red in the sunset's level flame Back to his bonds Abu Midjan came.

"Lady, I swear your Saad's horse-- The Prophet himself might have rode a worse!

Like the knots of a serpent the play of his flesh As he tore to the quarry in Allah's mes.h.!.+

I forgot him, and mowed at the traitor weeds, Which fell before me like rushes and reeds, Or like the tall poppies that sudden drop low Their heads to an urchin's unstrung bow!

Fled the Giaour; the faithful flew after to kill; I turned to surrender: beneath me still Was Abdon unjaded, fresh in force, Faithful and fearless--a heavenly horse!

Give him water, lady, and barley to eat; Then haste thee and fetter the wine-bibber's feet."

To the terrace he went, and she to the stall; She tended the horse like guest in hall, Then to the warrior unhasting returned.

The fire of the fight in his eyes yet burned, But he sat in a silence that might betoken One ashamed that his heart had spoken-- Though where was the word to breed remorse?

He had lauded only his chief's brave horse!

Not a word she spoke, but his fetters locked; He watched with a smile that himself bemocked; She left him seated in caitiff-plight, Like one that had feared and fled the fight.

But what singer ever sat lonely long Ere the hidden fountain burst in song!

The battle wine foamed in the warrior's veins, And he sang sword-tempest who sat in chains.

"Oh, the wine Of the vine Is a feeble thing!

In the rattle Of battle The true grapes spring!

"When on whir Of Tecbir Allah's wrath flies, And the power Of the Giaour A blasted leaf lies!

"When on force Of the horse The arm flung abroad Is sweeping, And reaping The harvest of G.o.d!

"Ha! they drop From the top To the sear heap below!

Ha! deeper, Down steeper, The infidels go!

"Azrael Sheer to h.e.l.l Shoots the foul shoals!

There Monker And Nakir Torture their souls!

"But when drop On their crop The scimitars red, And under War's thunder The faithful lie dead,

"Oh, bright Is the light On hero slow breaking!

Rapturous faces Bent for embraces Watch for his waking!